


I've Buit My Life Around You (Landslide)

by cobainandstylinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Boys as groomsmen, Larry Wedding!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:46:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobainandstylinson/pseuds/cobainandstylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which harry has struggled with depression + louis is always there to catch him, in sickness + in health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Buit My Life Around You (Landslide)

**Author's Note:**

> soz that summary is so awful.

“Haz, come on- today’s the day.”

A bulb of coffee coloured curls spills from beneath the guest room duvet set, the singular reveal to the emerald eyed artist’s location. 

Groans rupture the silence above the sheets as they swish between sodden thighs. 

“Harry Edward Styles, so help me God if you don’t-”

“Gemma!” comes a kinder, more tender voice that effectively draws his elder sister from his bedside and allows him room enough to extend various limbs. 

Peering over a series of weather cotton bed sheets, Harry is met with a cup of Yorkshire clutched between fingers entirely too familiar. 

“Good morning, sweet boy.” murmurs his mother, the roots along her scalp beginning to gray. 

She urges him to rest upon his elbows, where he is better able to sip at the rim of the ceramic mug. 

“Kind of odd, isn’t it?” 

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Harry pauses to gulp down the quarter portion of his tea, “I’m marrying the love of my life today, Mum.” 

“NOT IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR INTERNATIONAL ARSE OUT OF BED YOU’RE NOT!” 

There followings the nearly inaudible growl of Irish slang that Harry ventures to translate as “Can it, ya stay-at-home-chastity belt.” Then again, he really can’t distinguish anything beyond the sobs ejected from his mother’s chest as it’s slumped against him. 

“I’m sorry- I’m sorry. I promised your sister I wouldn’t cry and here I am, the morning of-” 

“Bloody hell, Mum, you’re gonna make me cry.”

And they’re both crying then, her cradling him close as she has since the beginning stages of his life. 

“I love you, Harry.” she says, pulling away after a few minutes, smoothing out her sleeping gown. 

“Love you too, Mum.” he replies. 

They retreat to the kitchen where Gemma is in wait to bombard the two with grief. 

“Are you quite finished?”

Harry sends her an explicit hand signal when their mother is turned away and things become regular again. 

Nick and Liam rise within minutes of each other when Anne has just set out a platter of fry up and bacon and various sliced fruits. 

“Coffee and tea’s on the counter, milk and honey by Niall there on the table.” she chirps, greeting each boy with a one-armed hug as she prepares another batch of eggs.

Sleep muddled ‘thank you’s are exchanged as the group of young adult (with the exception of Nick, who as of late has embarked upon his early thirties) satisfy their   
appetites. 

Harry is notably quiet throughout the duration of breakfast, not at all surprising to those closest to him, his Mother in particular. He’s been like this since the 1999 court date when his parents had fought for custody of the four year old and his big sister. Set events brought out a timid side in Harry, provoked mostly by the memories rendered to his subconscious, too extensive for the daily thought process. 

People begin pouring in around noon: family, bridesmaids and wedding attendees alike. Perrie comes from Harry’s flat where Louis and his family and own procession have been camped out since Thursday. She greets Harry with a hug and freshly dyed ringlets. 

“Everything’s alright here?” she inquires once they’re alone in Harry’s bathroom where she sets about taming his bedraggled look into something he hopes will be remotely attractive. 

“You’re a bit peaky.” she adds, not awaiting the drawn-out reply.

“Yeah.” 

“Nervous?”

“Yeah.” he breathes, relaxing into the brush as Perrie maneuevers it expertly as to disguise the boughts of acne that shrouds his forehead. 

“Louis, too- you lot are one and the same.” she says with a faint smile. 

“How’re things with you ‘n Zayn?” he asks, desperate for any sort of distraction. 

“We haven’t seen each other in months- it’s really weird.” she explains, adding quietly, “ ‘Specially when his new toy’s over for some late night fun.” 

“You’re not serious? Lou ‘n I SPECIFICALLY told him not to involve her in- Christ, I’m so sorry, Pez.” 

“Don’t worry- Lou definitely had it out with him.” 

He chuckles fondly because that’s Louis in a nutshell. 

“Just don’t feel like you have to hide that sort of thing from me. I’m a big girl, H- I can handle it.” 

And she blows him a kiss, wary of her evenly spread lip colour.

“Ready to check yourself out?” 

 

Harry’s never been narcissistic: moderately satisfied with his looks- he reckoned it was what it was and there wasn’t anything beyond Proactive solution to better it. But today he knows he’s beautiful and he hugs Perrie tight.

“Thanks, Pez.”

“Course,” she grins, “S gonna be interesting to see how Louis’ gonna hide his chubby in the pants he’s wearing- wait til you see his ass…”

Harry lets out a sincere bleat of laughter. 

“Reckon he’ll like it?”

“Oh don’t flatter yourself.” 

He pokes the tongue out of his mouth’s corner, earning a sharp cuff on the shoulder. 

“Alright, dickhead- go get dressed.” she thrusts a heavy dry cleaner’s bag into his chest and leaves him to change. 

Once he’s dressed, having found the tuxedo tailored to perfection, Harry keeps away from all food and wine. 

His father arrives when Harry’s changing: allowing Gemma time to set Des and Anne straight.

“Not a harsh word between you two,” she demands, gesturing to her parents where they stand on opposing ends of the kitchen, “this is Harry’s day, and he’s worked through massive hell to get here and I’m not asking for rainbows or whatever, just, PLEASE, no jabs, no glares, etc. He picks up on that stuff- I know he does, so please- you know, be cool?” 

They nod, acknowledging each other with tight lipped smiles. 

“Great, okay- I’m gonna find Perrie, do my makeup, yeah.”

 

And gradually chaos ensues within the hour as more people filter in from their respective places: a motley of Harry and Louis’ family and friends. Tents have been assembled across the field beyond Harry’s childhood home where the ceremony is to take place. The weather is standard to Holmes Chapel in mid August: skies clear and crisp with fresh sunlight as it falls a honey colour along the expansive clearing. 

Louis had chosen the site- he thought it brought out the most free willed of Harry’s spirits and he took a liking to the humour that kept him anchored and humble. 

 

They hadn’t fought too much over the logistics of the event; Harry was satisfied with yellow daisies and red velvet cake, the suede boots with his tux, leaving the bulk of the preparation up to Louis. 

 

“Was too stressed to get it up.” Harry says when NIck asks him how he’d been ‘working off the nerves.’

“Shit!” Niall exclaims, chuckling as they mill about the guest room, waiting on Liam to properly adjust his hair. 

Harry rubs his palms of excess perspiration with the duvet cover beneath him, sighing. 

“One hour to go!” Gemma declares, poking her head through the crevice in the doorway. 

“I could’ve been naked, you know!” Nick explains, nibbling at the butt of an unlit fag. 

“Yeah, yeah. Mum wants us out for pictures in fifteen.” she says to Harry. 

 

The next hour ushers past in a flurry of Polaroid flashes that click and ebb across his vision and he really wants Louis and his thin lips, the colour of thawed cheeks in December and the feels of his thick-muscled thighs quaking as Harry rides him.   
And Harry knows that it’s right for them- marriage, and he grows instantly content in the mind of instinct.

 

“Ello, ello!” 

The sound of heels kneading into grass accompany high pitched commentary as the Tomlinsons weave their way through the open patio doors.   
Johannah Darling bustles into the family room, flanked by a precession of preadolescents, each more elated than the last. She envelops Harry in yards of peach fabric and lilac fragrance. 

“You look so handsome, my son-in-law.” she coos, thumbing over the crater dimples embedded at opposite corners of his mouth. 

The girls, meanwhile, are all but clawing at the boy’s legs, hungry for his charm and attention. Daisy and Phoebe- the twins- dressed as flower girls in identical lavender frocks, itch at the tights round their legs while the two elder sisters eye Harry with supreme adoration, polite and shy. 

“We just wanted to pop in before the ceremony,” Jay begins, sniffling slightly, “see you out there, darling.”  
The mother and her ducklings file out as soon as they’ve arrived, contrary to their gadding nature. 

Soon, Harry realizes it’s only him and Anne left in the entire house, the walls almost shaking in the absence of formal fabric bustling about various legs as they are dressed in shotgun-wedding anecdotes. 

“We’re not leaving until you brush your teeth, you know.” 

And it takes Harry about to realize she’s joking- a smile, small and quaint pursed at the apex of her mouth. She had been steadfast since his first day of primary- “Breath can be the first impression, you know that, H.”

He’d even been late once in year six, back when he was so keen on a rebellious front. 

 

She knew it was her last time for kindergarten with her second child, at least when things were still, remotely unchanged. Soon he would have babies of his own, she thought as they linked arms and began the parade down the concrete fairway that ran off course to the field, on which lay the ceremony’s physical entirety. 

They step beneath the shelter of the first white tent where the bridal party lay in wait, passing round a flask of what Harry deems Nick’s subpar bathtub gin.

“You look great, Harry- brilliant.” Niall declares upon the breath of his whistle. 

The space grows silent.

“Wish I would’ve shagged you more than twice.” Nick exclaims, three quarters sincere. 

Harry blushes- heat staining cherry red the apples of his cheeks, still honey brown from June and July. 

“Christ! Thank God I’m marrying you off.” Anne jests. 

It was no secret to Harry that Louis had been reluctant to invite Nick, let alone include him in their wedding party. Nick and Harry had been together an umpteenth count, primarily during the X Factor days when Harry hadn’t yet fucked a boy. They hooked up a few times when he and Louis had split up in the midst of their Take Me Home North American leg. Louis had developed further animosity towards Nick at the time, when the DJ flew out to meet Harry on their sparsity of free days.   
But Louis had succuumbed to the wishes of his fiance in the end, for nothing more than the fact that they were in love. 

A head protrudes the main flap at the front of the tent, “You ready to go, then?”

It’s Tommy, Louis’ cousin from California who was to facilitate the union. 

Overeager and jittery, Harry offers a curt nod to the long-haired broad in his makeshift preacher garb. While it’s all been rehearsed (a tiresome number of times), Harry can’t remember if he’s worn socks and his fall as lead beneath him as he shifts the weight from side to side. 

It’s three minutes before Harry’s own group begins to thin out along to the chords of You Can’t Always Get What You Want until Bon Iver takes over and again the mother and son link elbows, stood together at the canvas outskirts. 

“Don’t trip.” she whispers, giggling.

“I’ll try.” 

“You’re ready.”

 

He remember their first fight: a simple altercation blown out of proportion by a double dose of jet lag. Louis had made him cry: calling him a ‘curly-haired cunt’ at a volume that attracted the full attention of the passengers aboard their commercial flight back to London. They weren’t a couple, not yet, but Zayn had to cuddle Harry the remainder of the trip. They’d forgiven each other the following days, casting aside the nonsensical exchange. 

 

It wasn’t their last indiscretion- not by a thousand. One would be put in quarantine from time to time on the road when the shouting had reached a boiling point and the others had grown weary of it. They’d even gotten violent once, when Louis’d snogged Stan on New Years: Harry backhanded him sharp the next morning when he had been so hungover.

 

But walking across the strip of weeds offered Harry insight as to why he’s there, his eyes locked on the man awaiting beneath the arching trelis beyond the sea of folding chairs and everything was justified. 

“And once I knew, I was not magnificent.”

Anne gives his arm a squeeze, pressing a kiss to his cheek once they reach the foot of the altar, and with shaky limbs, Harry slides into place. 

He’s met with cerulean eyes, full and watery. 

“You’re so beautiful.” 

Harry splutters slightly, tears welling along his waterline. 

“You’re alright.” Louis whispers, equally near to sobbing and he interlaces their fingers. 

“We are gathered here today, to celebrate the union of two men, and the love they share….” 

Tommy is terse and determined in the logistics and delivery of the speech and Harry and Louis are aware of only each other, and when Harry is summoned to read his personal vows, his rentrance to reality is less than seamless as he stumbles over the initial sentence. 

“Louis, I want to say thank you. Thank you for every night spent beside me on the bathroom floor, for every parcemol on the nightstand and concert euphemism. I’m so honoured to love you, Lou, your morning and day and dark, your Monday- Friday, all of you. I promise to love you every morning and night, Mondays and Fridays.”   
Harry’s voice falters at the end and he gives Louis a nod, sliding a silver band over the second knuckle of his ring finger, so it’s secure against his skin. Harry massages the spot briefly before recalling that he’ll have forever to memorize that feeling. 

Louis draws in a terse breath, exhaling before straightening the lapels of his suit. 

“People talk about love all the time like it’s some destination- that there’s some instantaneous gratification once you’ve found it. I wish it could’ve been like that for us, Hazza- you more than deserve that, but you’ve got to understand that I was so scared to love you- out of my mind since I met you that day in the bathroom- you know why?”

Harry shakes his head. 

“You had brown hair and pale skin and this ridiculous beanie and you had these green eyes that I wanted to love and understand and respect.”

He begins to shudder now, sparse tears alleviated. 

“I have the privilege to learn you more each day and watching you recover and triumph against your depression is the bravest thing I’ve ever witnessed. I swear to keep you safe- to remind you of how beautiful you are each and every day. You are absolutely the greatest thing to happen to me, Haz- I love you.” 

Through bleary eyes, Harry watches as Louis places an identical ring upon his fourth finger. 

And they’re married, Fleetwood Mac playing in the background like their third date and Harry’s senses stem nowhere beyond Louis: he’s in his ears and ears and lungs- Penny Lane, everywhere. Life is better in golden skin and tattoos, with bright eyes and the fittest ass. 

They’re ushered back into the tent where Harry had first waited and they’re alone. Louis jumps, swinging his legs around Harry’s waist, wrists linked at the nape of his neck. 

“Hi.”

“Oops.”


End file.
